


You Are in a Maze of Twisty Little Passages, All Alike

by ballpoint_banana



Category: Black Mirror, Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (2018)
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Memory Loss, Mild Sexual Content, Parallel Universes, Time Shenanigans, Unresolved Tension, aftermath of the 'colin jumps stefan wakes up' timeline, pour one out for kitty y'all she needs more love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-11 12:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17446733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint_banana/pseuds/ballpoint_banana
Summary: Memories vary. It doesn't bother her.It never used to bother her.





	You Are in a Maze of Twisty Little Passages, All Alike

**Author's Note:**

> me? re-titling my fic 12 hours after I upload it because i'm indecisive?? it's more likely than you think

Kitty is summoned from a dim, complicated dream by the sound of crying. It’s a squeaky, mewling noise; unmistakably Pearl, in a crib in the corner of the bedroom, too close and miles away. It's the second time of the night she's woken up. The third, maybe. She is an alarm clock, always ticking, getting ready to go off. Kitty groans.

“It’s your turn,” she mumbles into her pillow.

There is no response.

She opens her eyes. For a half-second, panic grips her.

There are flashes: blood, screaming.

She scrambles to sit up, and—

Colin is standing by the window, Pearl stirring in his arms. He looks asleep on his feet.

Kitty starts breathing again, rubs her eyes. “Christ. Don't scare me like that.”

“Sorry.” Colin’s voice is scratchy from disuse. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

She doesn't know how to explain that that isn't what she meant, so instead, she settles back into the mattress and lets the adrenaline in her blood sort itself out. Colin sways back and forth in the moonlight, lips ghosting the top of Pearl's fuzzy little head. Her cries have dissolved into mere babbles, now, and they grow drowsier by the second. A minute passes. Colin places her back in the crib. Kitty marvels, silently, at the ease of it all.

When he slumps back into the bed, Colin’s eyes are half-closed already. He rolls on his side, faces her—pauses.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “You're crying.”

Is she? She touches her cheek. Her finger comes away wet.

“Oh. I think I was having a bad dream.”

Colin hums. He opens his arms in invitation and she accepts, scooting over and resting her head against his chest. His body is warm. Steady.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispers.

“Maybe. But I don't remember what it was.”

“Mm. For the best.”

He kisses her forehead groggily. He's already drifting off again, leaving Kitty behind. Here. She's in a pocket of silence, fly wings suspended in amber. She’s been feeling that way a lot lately. Waves of pre-nightmare nervousness roll through her gut.

As she stares at the ceiling, the dream slowly comes back to her: she was outside amongst stars. The sky was full of dead men drifting in the blackness like helium balloons. Half of them were Colin. Half of them were a stranger. She watched herself float through the blinks and glitterings a couple of times, blood on her temple. She felt afraid.

Two hours later, when she wakes up again, Pearl is crying in the half-light of dawn. Right on time. Kitty sighs, stands, shivers against the cold. Pearl squalls as she lifts her out of the crib.

“Shhh.” Kitty holds her tightly to her chest. “‘S'alright, love.”

Pearl shrieks. Kitty blows air out of her nose.

“Col, would you mind giving me a hand? I think she wants you.” She turns, ready to rouse him if needed, and finds the bed is empty.

Oh.

The bed is empty. Of course it's empty.

Colin is dead.

The acid. Blood on the storage unit. Her screaming. All of it, just yesterday. It all seems ludicrous now.

Colin is dead. She can't get her mind to work it out properly. The facts haven't gelled yet. It’s a good thing none of this has really happened, she thinks to herself. Wouldn't that be terrible? She can't shake the feeling that he's going to walk through the door, lie down, wrap his arms around her. The musings are too familiar; didn't that happen last night?

No. No, of course not.

Christ. She's off her fucking rocker.

She sits down on the edge of the bed. Colin is dead. Pearl is still fussing in her arms; she's probably hungry, and she needs to be changed. Kitty will need to take care of these things. She’ll need to take care of everything now.

And her bones are suddenly lead-heavy with the reality of her situation: she is going to have to keep on living here, alone, forever, because Colin is dead.

Her face loosens. She rubs her eyes. One ugly, painful sob wrenches itself from her chest, startling the baby. God help her. Her life has been split in two. She is living in the second half, the afterwards. She can't go back. There is nothing she can do.

Pearl cries, too. They are inconsolable, the pair of them. For a long, timeless minute, Kitty thinks she might never do anything but cry again.

* * *

This would be easier if Colin wasn't Colin, she thinks. If he wasn't so prone to...whatever it is that he’s prone to. Superposition; here and somewhere else at the same time. Maybe bouncing back and forth is more accurate. Displacement, or coherence. It's hard to find the right words.

Kitty isn’t sure exactly when, but at some point not long after they met, she and Colin started playing correspondence chess. It was a good way to keep in touch whenever Colin went off on one if his sojourns, which happened quite a bit in the nascent days of their relationship, and it suited the two of them better than writing letters. Both of them enjoyed a challenge.

They kept a few games going simultaneously. Colin's spate of moves would arrive in the mail all at once, on a single sheet of paper. Kitty would read them, move his pieces on her boards, formulate her responses. If she felt confident that she was winning, she'd press a lipsticked kiss to the corner of her page before sending it off. A bit hackneyed, maybe, but it came from a sincere place. Something about being with Colin made Kitty prone to enchantment.

The games kept up after she moved into his flat, their pieces of paper tucked into corners and left on tables. At that point, they could have played chess on a single board in person anytime they liked; but they were determined to keep playing correspondence chess, because they were in love with each other, and this was how they said it.

There was the obvious problem, of course: the close proximity made things too quick. Games were over before they began. There had to be more barriers between the transmission of a move and its reception. So, Kitty started making puzzles.

Where had she gotten the idea? She thinks it was listening to Colin talk about _Through the Looking Glass_ one night. They’d been smoking something pleasantly heady; she remembers the warm, glassy look in his eyes. He told her all about the riddles underneath the surface of the prose, talking with his hands. A positive rant, this time; no paranoia. One of his better days. She nodded.

"I haven't read it since I was a kid," she said. “Come to think of it, maybe I only read the first one.”

“Hm. We can fix that.” Colin pulled himself up off the couch and crossed the room, landing in front of his bookshelf. He picked up the book in question, a second-edition hardback, going soft with age.

“I think you'll like it,” he said as he handed it to her. The slipcover felt fragile, the pages worn. 

She hadn't liked it. Carroll’s wordplay annoyed her endlessly. She would have preferred if all the characters had just said exactly what they meant, or else used the elusive, deceptive power of words to say something worthwhile instead of just torturing poor Alice. But it was, at its core, a book about chess; so it made good groundwork for a chess puzzle.

It took her half an hour to come up with a simple cipher, which she then used to encode her next move in the game. She generously left _Looking Glass_ on the dining room table before she slipped her paper underneath Colin's keyboard.

When he found it, his eyes flashed brilliantly behind his glasses. She watched the gears of his mind turn, his eyebrow quirked, a smile tugging at his lips.

He cast his gaze over at her. She sipped her tea impishly.

“Alright, then,” he said. A smile spread across his face, cool, smooth as frosting on a cupcake. "Of course, you know this means war.”

“Oh, but of course.” She had expected little else.

The retort came quickly; two days later, maybe three. Kitty walked into the bedroom to find an envelope sitting on her pillow; inside it, a computer-printed map depicting an underground dungeon maze, smattered with trapdoors and caches of treasure. The strange spellings in the legend and the topographical quirks might have tipped off an observer that there was a secondary level of meaning. To her absolute delight, it seemed that he had borrowed a page from her book, as well as her lipstick; a cherry-red kiss had been planted on the corner of the paper. War, indeed.

It took her a week to pull the chess move out of it, and the worst part was, it was a pretty good move. He put her king in check. At night, she worked out her response in her notebook, then lay in bed, thinking about the other messages in the code. She ran her finger idly along the edge of the paper.

What had happened after that? She had...yes. That was it; she had closed her eyes, and allowed herself to think about Colin, preparing the puzzle.

Colin, his jaw set with concentration as he worked at his computer, making something just for her; Colin’s fingers on the keys, gripping the lipstick tube, running it smoothly over his parted lips; Colin's lips on the paper, then on her skin; the paper against her skin as he spread her out on top of the map and used his lips, his mouth on her, everywhere, leaving behind smears of red; her neck, her breasts, her thighs, all red, all over—

She had come with a hiss, arching into her own fingers. It took her a long time to fall asleep after that. She’s fairly certain that's how it went.

But...well. She has other recollections, too. Things that don't quite make sense to her. Incoherent.

Colin coming home, entering into the room, catching her, smiling. Colin kissing her on the bed, or fucking her on the stairs, or falling apart beneath her hands on the kitchen table.

Colin coming home late, while she was half-asleep, and smoking alone on the balcony all night long. 

Colin coming home right before dawn, crawling into their bed, kissing the back of her neck. Colin whispering an apology she didn't understand into her skin.

Colin never coming home that night. Colin never coming home again.

Had she been dreaming all these things? Maybe. Maybe she’s just getting things confused. Memories vary; that’s what happens in life. That's just how things are with Colin. It doesn't bother her.

It never used to bother her.

* * *

By seven a.m., she can't stand up and she can't sit down; she’s just shuffling around in her robe, smoking fags and drinking tea. The flat feels cavernous, bathed in sunlight and the faint odor of used nappies. Seven years of Colin’s pack-ratiness lurks phantomwise in the corners.

There are closets full of suit coats and t-shirts; yellowing computer manuals and the computers to go with them; a lone Rubik's Cube on the coffee table. He gave that to Kitty for her birthday one year. He’s the only person she's ever known who could solve it faster than her, nineteen seconds to her twenty-one. He has quicker fingers than she does. Or—had. Past tense.

It's a good thing Colin isn't dead, isn’t it? That would be awful.

Her shuffling is interrupted at eight a.m., when her sister shows up unannounced. Kitty is surprised; she opens up the door and immediately finds herself bombarded by Marjorie’s condolences, and hugs, and cooing kisses on the cheek. Kitty weathers the affection, but she's made of cement, arms locked in a down position. Jo invites herself into the flat. Kitty doesn't try to stop her.

When their parents died a decade ago, Jo appointed herself the new distant, responsible parent-figure in Kitty's life. She's done a decent job, all things considered: she works a normal, respectable office job; she disapproves of Colin, although she approves of his money; she’s managed to effectively reduce herself to a troubled voice on the telephone three or four times a year, under normal circumstances. Seeing her in person is strange. 

Jo cuts right to the chase: she wants to babysit Pearl for the day. It’ll give Kitty some space, she says; it’ll allow her get her affairs in order. 

Her affairs. Does she have those? Kitty is ashamed at how quickly she accepts the offer. She's in no shape to be a mother right now, if indeed she ever will be again. Jo’s forehead is creased with worry when Kitty lights another cigarette.

“What happened last night, Kit?”

Jo’s voice is an unbearable melodrama. What she's really asking is if it was an accident. She’s asking if Colin was depressed, or insane, or tripping out of his mind. It would confirm all her worst suspicions.

“Kit Kat?” Jo prompts softly.

Kitty shakes her head. In her memory, everything is broken and red. “I can't,” she says. “I can't. I'm sorry.”

Jo does her the small mercy of letting the matter drop.

She offers to stay with Kitty. Kitty refuses, politely; she would like to be alone. Jo doesn't protest. Instead, she packs a bag and leaves with a promise to call her in the evening. Pearl is squealing in her stroller when the door shuts. It’s nine a.m.

Apparently, Colin’s death was covered on the news this morning; that's how Jo knew to call. Light on the details. Famed programmer Colin Ritman found dead outside south London home; an apparent accident. No accusations. No lurid photographs. There was an old headshot of Colin, though. Mohan fucking Thakur must have given it to the network, or at least signed off on it, the fucking prick. She certainly didn't give anyone Colin's photograph. She didn't sign off on any this.

Did she even see any reporters outside last night? Any police officers? She can't remember. When she tries to, the memory drops off after a certain point, goes to static like bad reception on a telly.

She starts again, from the beginning: she was holed up in the bedroom with pens and graph paper and Pearl in her crib, designing some new tangram puzzles. She's on deadline with a publisher, and she was laser-focused; didn't leave the room for what felt like hours. Would things be different is she had?

Eventually, she thought she heard something going on outside the room; fighting, or something more subdued. Maybe just loud talking. She stepped into the living room. The balcony door was open, city sounds pouring inside. Colin's friend—what was his name?—was a sweaty mess. He staggered past her. She thinks she asked where Colin was, although a sickly feeling worked its way through her body like rust and told her that on some level, she already knew the answer. She already knew. She peered over the edge of the balcony and cried out like a wounded animal when she saw the blood.

What the hell happened after that? She can't remember. Christ, she’s rattled; she needs to calm down and get her shit together. She needs to figure things out.

One thing at a time.

First, she needs to eat. She fed Pearl in such a daze this morning that she barely registered her own hunger. She _needs_ to eat, or she'll starve and fucking die, too. There's a Caramac in the cupboard, which she chews slowly. It leaves a sweet, chalky film on the inside of her mouth.

When she's done with that bit of self-care, she pours herself a shot of whiskey in a mug and chases down the sugar. Whiskey; it's supposed to be bracing. She has no clue what that means. She isn't braced. She doesn't know how to brace herself for anything.

One thing at a time. She calls her office, because hell, she might as well clue them in, too. She writes cryptic crosswords for the _Guardian Weekly,_ and she already does most of her work from home, anyway; she delivers batches of puzzles in a clasped manila envelope to their downtown headquarters just once a month. She isn't due in for another three days, but she anticipates a delay. The receptionist sighs sympathetically on the other end of the call; oh, she's so sorry. She heard about it on the news. Her uncle committed suicide a few years ago; a family man. She knows how tough that sort of thing can be on a child, on a wife.

Kitty's mouth goes dry. Thank you; she appreciates the condolences. Of course, yes, she'll call back in a few days. Yes. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.

She has to rest her head in her hands for awhile after that, palms pressed into her eyes.

She thinks about lighting up another fag, but when she looks up and blinks the stars from her eyes, there's her grinder, sitting on the table across the room. She grabs her pipe; her fingers shake as she packs the bowl. God damn it, why can't she keep things together?

She flicks the lighter, sucks deeply, exhales. Again, again. It's helping to regulate her breathing. One thing at a time. 

It's almost ten-thirty. She's putting off the hard parts, the things she really doesn't want to do. Mohan fucking Thakur still hasn't called. She wonders if she's been conscripted into some kind of fucked up game of chicken with him, or if his head is really so far up his own arse that he actually hasn't heard the news yet. 

Two more shots of whiskey, followed by another bowl. Briefly, she flirts with the idea of finding something stronger—but then thinks better of it. Red oozes into the corners of her vision as she picks up the phone again.

She doesn't want to talk to the Tuckersoft receptionist. She's a nice girl, but that's the problem. Kitty doesn't think she could handle any more fawning right now. It just might send her over the edge.

It’s a roll of the dice when she dials Colin's extension. The phone rings once. Twice. Someone picks up midway through the third ring, and sure enough, Kitty recognizes the voice.

“You've reached the number of Colin Ritman. Mohan Thakur speaking.”

His voice is somber to the point of farce. Kitty actually rolls her eyes.

“Yes, I know,” she says tightly. “This is Kitty.”

“Who?”

So that's what it is. He isn't avoiding her, he’s just forgotten all about her.

Her grip tightens around the neck of the phone. “Kathleen. Colin's girlfriend.”

“God, right,” Thakur mutters. “Of course. I'm sorry, Kitty. How are you holding up?”

What a colossally stupid question. She wishes she was dead; that's how she's holding up.

“Fine,” she says. “I just need some information.”

“Yeah?” There's a wary pause. “What sort of information?”

“Colin was talking to someone, recently. Might've been from work. I need to speak with him, but I didn't catch his name. I thought maybe you would know him.”

Is this a long shot? She isn't sure, but it feels like one. Thakur sighs.

“Shit, Kitty. Colin barely talks to anyone while he's working. I don't know what he does when he's not on the clock. I'd have figured that's more your department.”

Kitty grits her teeth; braces herself. When she speaks, her voice is soft and pitched a little higher than her natural range.

“I think it started with an ‘S,’” she offers. What had Colin called him? “It was…Simon, or...or Steven—?”

“Stefan,” Thakur says suddenly. “Stefan Butler?”

Kitty's chest tightens. “Yes. Stefan. That was it.”

“Christ,” Thakur mutters. “This kid. He's contracting for us, working on a new title. I've been trying to get ahold of him all bloody morning…”

“Is he supposed to come into the office today?”

“No, no. He works from his house. He's probably holed up there. Got his father screening his calls for him, I suspect. If I weren’t so bloody busy I'd be out there knocking on his door by now, but—”

“I'll go,” Kitty says quickly. “I mean—I need to talk to him, anyway. If you give me his address, I'll go myself.”

“Ah. Right-o.” Thakur’s voice is the smarmy, barely-restrained song of a man who thinks he's getting a good deal. “If you find him, can you relay a message?”

She digs her nails into her palm. “Yes.”

“Tell him I hope he's not feeling too shaken up about the news—and also that the timetables haven't changed. The deadline is the same.”

Timetables, deadlines. It's like he's speaking a foreign language. She can't process it. “I'll tell him.”

“Thank you. And again, I'm so sorry for your loss. Colin was such a talented bloke. Such a shame.”

Yes, Kitty thinks; such a shame he isn't going to be around to finish his latest game and make you any money.

God. She’s made a mistake. The treacly leer in Thakur’s voice is worlds worse than whatever the receptionist could have said to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Thakur.”

“Please, honey, call me Mohan. And don't hesitate to drop by if you need anything, yeah? Tuckersoft’s doors are always open to Colin Ritman's girl.”

And at this, Kitty is left speechless, because Jesus fucking Christ. It's incredible, really. A minute ago, he didn't remember who she was; now he's calling her honey. Colin's fucking girl. If she calls back later today, he’ll have forgotten her all over again.

How much do all these people really care for her? What is she worth to them? She turns the morning over in her mind, counts the words, adds them up. In each case the verdict is clear: not enough.

Without Colin, she is alone. She is contextless. She is going to be standing at the edge of the darkness for the rest of her life, listening for the sound of his keyboard, his socks on the floor, his quiet laughter, and no matter how much she misses him, there will only ever be silence.

“Thank you,” she says into the phone. Hairline fractures find their way into her voice. “I appreciate your thinking of me. Could I get that address, please?”

* * *

The journey to Stefan’s house is a blur. A bus ride, a short walk. The cold air stinging the tip of her nose is the only thing she registers. It's nearly one o'clock by the time she's standing on his front lawn.

His house is cozy-looking, a small brick thing covered in ivy. She's always had a soft spot for houses like this. It reminds her of the one Colin used to live in with some flatmates, a long time ago, pre-Tuckersoft. There were four other blokes living there, plus one geriatric terrier named Bandit, of whom Colin was particularly fond. Kitty loved watching him interact with that dog. He was so enthusiastic with him, so loving. One of the only times she ever remembers seeing Colin cry was when Bandit had to be put down. Afterwards, she and Colin sat on the front lawn, staring at the sky and smoking cigarettes.

Kitty realizes, as she knocks on Stefan's front door, that she doesn't really have a plan.

Is Stefan going to recognize her? How much does he remember of yesterday? Maybe he's just as confused as she is. The idea is oddly comforting, beneath the jolt of anxiety it sends through her.

Footsteps approach from within the house. A lock clicks. The door is cracked open.

It's not Stefan.

It's an older man, with greying hair and tired eyes behind glasses. He's wearing a neat sweater and crisp pants, and he's looking at her oddly. Kitty suddenly becomes very self-conscious about how strongly she must smell of booze and weed.

“Hi,” she says. “I'm Kitty. I'm looking for Stefan?”

The man's eyes widen. He opens the door all the way. 

“You're a friend of Stefan's?”

“Er—yes.”

He eyes her. This must be Stefan's father, she realizes suddenly. Damn; he sees right through her, he has to. She opens her mouth to backpedal, to downgrade herself to an acquaintance, but Stefan's father is quicker.

“Do you know where he is?” he says.

“I’m...sorry?”

“I haven't seen him since yesterday. He...he skipped a doctor's appointment and went off somewhere. Didn't come home. Hasn't talked to anyone at work, either, if all the calls from his boss are any indication…”

“Oh.” Something like guilt creeps its way up her throat. “I haven't seen him. I thought he might be here, actually.”

“So you don't have any idea where he might be?”

Where might he be? Kitty doesn't know what happened to him after she blacked out; she’s been assuming that he left, went home, but hell. For all she knows, he jumped, too. But then why wouldn't the news cover that, too? Where could the body have gone?

And _that_ sends a crack of lightning through her: where is Colin's body?

No one ever called her about it. She didn’t check. Did she?

She can't remember.

Kitty has the distinct feeling there is something going on that she can either understand or not understand. It’s perspicuous. There is a choice to be made.

“No,” she says. “I'm sorry. I don't know where he is.”

It’s the wrong answer; the man's face falls. But he recovers quickly. He breathes through his nose and shrugs, stepping to the side of the doorframe. 

“Well. You came all this way. Would you like a cuppa before you go?”

She understands that he isn't just being polite, not wholly and completely. He wants to pick her brain, see if she knows anything else. The feeling is mutual. She smiles the best she can manage as she steps inside.

The door shuts behind her, and for a moment, everything is dark. Stefan's father hits a switch, bathing the hall in harsh yellow light. He was sitting alone in the dark before she got here.

“Milk or sugar?” he says, leading her into the kitchen.

“No, thank you.” She shrugs off her coat. The kettle from which he pours her tea has certainly been sitting out since this morning, maybe earlier. She imagines him sitting up all night, looking out the kitchen window as he waits for his son to come home, and feels a ghostly pang of empathy: she thinks she's done the same thing with regards to Colin, although she can't recall any specific instances. In a sense, it's what she's doing right now; maybe that explains it.

The tea is cold. “Thanks,” she says.

Stefan's father nods, pours himself a cup. He doesn't quite meet her eyes as he sits.

“So how do you know Stefan, then?”

“Through work,” she says, and it isn't a lie. The fact that he’s a programmer is literally all she knows about him. Briefly, she considers mentioning Colin, then thinks better of it; Stefan's father might've seen the news this morning. She doesn't want him to make the connection.

Christ. She sounds monstrous. Is there even a connection to make?

“Mm.” Stefan's father grips his cup with both hands. “He's been stressed out recently, working on that game of his.”

That's what Colin had said, in as many words. “Yes. He mentioned.”

“Oh—have you spoken to him recently?”

Kitty licks her too-dry lips. “Um, yes—a few days ago.”

He furrows his brow. “Where'd you do that? I didn't think he'd left the house.”

Shit; she's out of her depths. She shakes her head, tries to think quickly. “Well—I didn't actually see him. I spoke to him on the phone.”

“Oh.” He pauses, clearly picking his next words carefully. “And he really didn't...mention anything? Say anything strange?”

Kitty shakes her head, apologetic, and sips her tea. God, she has a headache. She wants answers; she wants more whiskey. There is nothing for her here.

She can feel a flood if apologies and excuses building up inside her. Coming here was a mistake. She's about to say as much, until the phone rings.

Both of their heads snap in the direction of the hallway. Another sharp, trilling ring. It's probably Thakur, Kitty thinks. Based on the look on his face, Stefan’s father is thinking the same.

“Christ,” he grumbles. “I'm sorry. Pardon me a moment.”

He stands and steps into the hallway. Kitty just makes out the sound of him hissing “what now?” before he ducks into another room and shuts the door.

Kitty lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. The seconds stretch. She feels frozen.

She doesn't know what to do. About any of it.

What had she expected, coming here? What had she been hoping for? Best case scenario, Stefan would answer the door, and he would remember her. He would remember everything she couldn't. Kitty would ask him what happened last night, after the blood and the screaming, and he would tell her.

Does she really want to know?

Her stomach hurts. No; she doesn't. What she wants is to wake up from this, to get back to her real life. She wants confirmation that all of this is a misunderstanding. She wants to know that Colin didn't jump on purpose. She wants to know that Colin didn't hurt her on purpose. She wants to know why Colin hurt her like this. She wants—

“You're his wife.”

Kitty startles; she spills her tea.

Stefan's father is standing in the threshold of the doorway. The phone hangs loosely in his grasp.

“That bloke who jumped off a building last night,” he says. “Ritman. Colin Ritman. I saw it on the news. Stefan worked with him—I remember. Christ.” He casts his gaze down, eyeing the phone. “That...that Tuckersoft bloke said he sent you here. Why?”

Kitty catches her breath. The puddle spreads, dribbles across the table in rivulets, and the first thing she can think to say is, “I'm sorry.”

Stefan's father doesn't seem to hear her. He steps forward.

“Is my son okay?” he says. His voice is tight, shaky. He's trying to understand. “Is he...mixed up in all of this, somehow?”

Mixed up; that's the phrase she's been looking for all morning. She feels mixed up. Scrambled. Disarranged. 

“I don't know,” she says.

“Please.” Stefan's father steps forward until—oh, God. He's crouching beside her. He's got tears in his eyes.

"I..."

“Stefan isn't well,” he says. He's pleading with her; oh, Christ, oh no. “He's sick. I...I'm worried that he's lost touch with reality.”

Lost touch with reality. The tea spreads slowly on the table in front of her, the same way the blood spread on top the storage unit last night. A parade of disconnected images:

Colin's grave. Colin's funeral. Colin, in an orange jumpsuit, staring at her from behind glass. Colin, gone, nothing but negative space.

Colin jumping. Acid on fingertips, acid in tea. Colin, putting it in the cup when no one is looking. 

Stefan, pupils blown, sweating in the flat last night, shaken to his core.

Stefan staggering past her. Waking up.

 _“Please,”_ Stefan's father says. He's biting his lip; he's shaking his head. “He has to be okay. Oh, God...”

Kitty must stand up and brush past him; she must rush out the door, because she's outside now, half-running down the street.

Her breathing is shallow and too fast. Oh, God. What is she thinking? No actual thoughts, only feelings: panic, woe, a spark of defiant anger. 

For a terrible, white-hot second, Kitty hates Colin more than anything.

She ends up on a bus. Its destination is unclear to her; every time she tries to look out the window and gauge where she is, her mind unfocuses. It doesn't matter; she doesn't want to go anywhere. She wants to hide, to stay here in this liminal space.

She has another dim memory of the map that Colin made her.

The bones of recollection are the same; she found the puzzle, worked on it, decoded it. But that one night, she walked over to her chessboard and paused, running a hand across the top of each piece.

“Well, you _can't_ check," she muttered.

He didn't seem to actually know where the game left off. He must have gotten his wires crossed. Well, she thought, that’s Colin; always has trouble telling the map from the territory.

Sometimes, he gets lost in the bigger picture of things. Details slip through the cracks.

She folded up the map and went to sleep without much trouble. Her mind was unburdened, then; it never once occurred to her that she might be a detail, too. 

* * *

Time dissolves. It's nearly midnight by the time that Kitty ends up in front of Jo's house. It's a red-bricked terrace; elegant, growing more anachronistic by the day. Kitty rasps her knuckles against the wood of the door, and almost immediately, Jo opens up.

Her eyes are fierce; it's that hard, Presbyterian glare that their mother used to give them. Pearl is babbling in her arms, clapping her pudgy hands together.

“Where have you been?” she hisses. “I've been trying to call you for hours.”

Kitty doesn’t want to explain. She can't even manage to open her mouth to apologize. She just reaches out for her daughter, then wraps her arms around her tightly. Pearl fusses for a moment, then calms, pressing her open mouth against Kitty's shoulder and drooling.

“I was getting my affairs in order,” Kitty says. She sounds dead tired, even to own ears.

Jo softens. “Oh, Kit Kat.”

She has made soup. Kitty eats it robotically, still holding Pearl against her body with her free arm. She feels guilty for letting her go earlier; she lost sight. She never wants to let go again.

At first, Jo asks her questions. Did she call the police? Did she get in contact with the morgue, the funeral parlor? Has she started on the insurance? Kitty gives clipped, noncommittal answers; she doesn't say out loud that none of that matters at all. These details are like elements erased from a chalkboard, smeared and unreadable. They have no meaning here.

Eventually, they lapse into silence. Jo grabs spare linens from the closet and prepares the pull-out couch, then sets up Pearl's travel crib beside it. Afterwards, she rests a hand on Kitty's shoulder and squeezes gently. Kitty looks up at her.

“I'm going to bed,” Jo says. Pause. “I'm sorry, Kitty.”

Kitty nods, numbly. It isn't eloquent, but hell; it's comforting, if only vaguely. Someone is sorry.

“Thanks for supper,” she says.

Jo nods, exits. Now, it's just her and Pearl. The house feels empty and cold. Kitty hugs her tighter.

“Alright,” she says, just barely a whisper. “It's us now. Just us. We've got to be a team.”

Pearl coos. The planes of her face are more familiar to Kitty than her own. God, she looks like Colin. 

“I don't know why,” she says. “It's never going to make any sense, is it?”

It's never going to make any sense. 

Kitty undulates in and out of sleep for a few hours before finally settling into consciousness. It's still dark outside. She sits up, propping herself up against the couch cushions so she'll be able to see when dawn starts to arrive. When she thinks she can’t bear it for one more second, she peers into the crib by the bed where Pearl is sleeping soundly. Her chest rises and falls, her little lips parted gently. The face of love itself. She's breaking Kitty's heart.

Soon, everything will resume itself, but for now, they are still. A place of equilibrium. It feels like it could go on forever, this long, timeless moment, the two of them there, in the darkness, Kitty watching as the stars stop blinking and particles of dust hang motionless in the air.

**Author's Note:**

> "He's dreaming now,' said Tweedledee: 'and what do you think he's dreaming about?'  
> Alice said 'Nobody can guess that.'  
> 'Why, about YOU!' Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. 'And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?'  
> 'Where I am now, of course,' said Alice.  
> 'Not you!' Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. 'You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!'  
> 'If that there King was to wake,' added Tweedledum, 'you'd go out—bang!—just like a candle!"
> 
> \- Lewis Carroll, _Through the Looking Glass_


End file.
